


For Your Consideration: Intercourse

by caretta



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Sado-Masochism, Sexual Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26422495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caretta/pseuds/caretta
Summary: “Prowl doing paperwork with Jazz still jacked into him” is a thing that needs to happen.It only half-happened, because I veered off-course, but still. It was a jumping-off point.
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl
Comments: 6
Kudos: 60





	For Your Consideration: Intercourse

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Advance Notice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26415103) by [jabberish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jabberish/pseuds/jabberish). 



> *gestures vaguely towards Jab* Yeah so, it totally wasn’t my fault.

“One more time, babe. You up?”

Jazz licked the round disc of Prowl’s audio receptor, not waiting for an answer because one wasn’t needed. Prowl just kind of hummed, shifting his left thigh higher up as he swiped assent to the newest budget proposal. Jazz took the opportunity to blow into his grill, which draw the tiniest hitching sound, Prowl looking more disgruntled that Jazz interfered with his priority tree. Yeah, call Jazz a sucker, but that disapproving look right there?

He sank in, malleable mesh and wet heat, words that sounded antithetical to Prowl’s usual cold, harsh appearance. Which made the act pop for him, the way only a kill could — plasma blade in the dark, vivid and sharp, driving smoothly through pulsing metal. He was getting to Prowl’s center, he was stabbing into his spark. 

A rather dismissive look flicked up from under the rim of white helm. 

“Hurry up, would you? Correspondences are next, and I’d rather not have your erratic rhythm mess up my handwriting.”

Privately, Jazz had to give some glowing commendations. Prowl was _good_ at this, his voice giving up just a hint of static, enough for Jazz not to feel rejected, but _challenged_. He grinned, cheeky, “Yessir, right away sir,” put his strut into plowing like his next promotion depended on it. 

*

The suddenness nearly slipped Prowl’s mask, he dropped his stylus blindly grabbing for the headboard, hanging on for dear life as Jazz seemed determined to pound every color out his headlights. “C—cease this—,” he gasped, grasping for words, already this side of close to wetting himself, “—disrespect, right now! You—“

Jazz stopped, the picture of innocent (dis)obedience,

“Is this not what you wanted, sir?”

“I—,” Prowl squashed down his blush, “will not have you treat a senior officer so brutishly!” He found his stylus, which had rolled half under his shoulder vent. Speaking of ‘vent,’ Prowl took several, deep and slow, until his system stopped blaring overcharge warnings at him. 

He gathered his composure,

“If you wish to continue, you will do so only by a rhythm which I dictate.”

One corner of Jazz’s mouth twitched. His visor had turned near-dark, which made him look _feral_ , a rakish abandon in the set of his shoulders that Prowl wouldn’t— could concede to say looked moderately attractive. No matter, he would win this game. He rearranged the cushions to pull himself somewhat upright, allowing his arms more freedom.

“A shuttle’s average sparkbeat, if you please,” he said, gripping the datapad tight to hide his shakiness. “Proceed.”

*

“Proceed,” Prowl said, calm as you please, leaning against the headboard with his legs spread, faceplate passively reflecting some boring tax stuff with Jazz’s spike still in him. 

If Jazz hadn’t been revved before, which he _had_ , well...

A shuttle’s sparkbeat. Slow, deep, twisting a bit on the way out. Enough for every one of Prowl’s sensors to feel him, not enough hard friction to build addition charge. Instead, their equipments tingled from what was already there, and Jazz could already see Prowl’s optics glaze over from feeling Jazz brush against his uppernode. Jazz had some weird memory shuffle about it, once, about filling Prowl with his transfluid so utterly, that it overflowed his tank and dribbled out his mouth. He woke up confused mostly, not regarding his kink, just what it was about Prowl what made others want to possess him. Because that was what it was, possessiveness. Flooding Prowl with his essence to stake a claim. Jazz knew for a fact he wasn’t the first, nor the only one to desire such thing, if not quite explicitly. 

Or he was an aft going about this all wrong. What anybody thought was not Prowl’s fault.

A hand brushed his cheek. 

“Already bored, soldier?” Prowl asked, painfully earnest for such a ridiculous game. “I could arrange for a transfer, if you so ch—“

He swallowed the end of that sentence. Kissed Prowl, prying stylus and datapad away even as Prowl still tried to cling to them. Wrong, this wasn’t a game. When Jazz broke away, Prowl tried to look stern even as he was perspiring all over, platings flaring in vain to dispel the heat. The background hum of their vents had abruptly switched to deafening, and Prowl just looked at him, all disheveled, waiting for an explanation, some clue that the game would continue. 

“You have no idea, do you?”

Prowl narrowed his optics, _‘what’_ , but Jazz was suddenly, completely, beyond _games_. He attacked Prowl’s lips again, no pretense, a weak cry and a pound on his back marking the taste of energon between them. Prowl pushed him, yeah, no games, optics blazing, _here we were having a good time what the frag did you do that for?!_

“ _What_ idea?” He demanded, still _into_ it, somehow, legs wrapping tight around Jazz’s waist now, none of that affected easy slouch, and _yeah_ , frag authority, this was what he wanted. 

“Slap me,” he said, something strangely elated twisting in his spark chamber. 

“Sla— You are being ridiculous, what is this nonsense?!” Prowl twisted, finding both arms pinned on either side of his helm, still tight around Jazz’s spike. He had more bulk, yes, Jazz could still corner him. Never had a mech’s struggling looked more attractive.

“I am nothing but nonsense,” Jazz laughed, tightening his grip. “Try to slap me. Can you?”

“I clearly can’t,” Prowl snapped, “what is the point?! You know I can’t, we talked, I gave it to you!”

Jazz felt his lips leisurely stretch over his dentae, “Precisely.”

Prowl vented hard. He twitched, grimacing at his modified lack of strength. The coherence was gone, the decorum was gone. What Prowl was, was _pissed_. He pushed his legs down on the berth, bracing. 

Then he headbutted Jazz.

Colorful stars burst over Jazz’s vision as laughter exploded out of him, light and easy. He licked off the energon, glad to hear some of it dripping onto Prowl’s faceplate. Prowl was trying to wrench his fists from Jazz’s iron grip now, cursing a streak that would make Ratchet proud, his thrashing fury directly connected to how hard he was clenching around Jazz. Prowl could have said their word, but he didn’t, so Jazz thrusted into him, his own speed, his own strength, excitement at having guessed right blowing away the last of his misgivings. 

Why play games, when he could give them both what they truly wanted?

*

Jazz pushed his face down, and he had never hated anyone more. 

“Always wanted this, babe,” Jazz said, the edge of his vibroblade buzzing at Prowl’s neck cable, close enough that he could practically hear his own energon spurt. “Wanted to hear you cry, wanted to taste you on my blade.”

“Kiss my aft,” Prowl sneered, kicking his leg back one more time like it could change anything. His arms felt weak, already too strained to support his own weight, yet Jazz still pushed on the back of his helm until Prowl had no choice but to collapse on his front. Pit, he hated everything — Jazz’s weight on his back, the lack of control, how he had foreclosed tacnet so thoroughly that it now sat in a useless heap because _it was his protocol, he calculated for this, he wanted this_. Under duress, Jazz’s spike felt impossibly intrusive, an inescapable reminder. It pushed and pulled without his input, his permission, his direction; it knew his rage only to use it against him, took it from him, channelled it. 

The more his charge built, the more livid he became. 

Jazz on the other hand was living his best life. Making cuts, carving symbols, the taste of energon mingled freely between their glossae. He sucked directly from the wounds, with childish joy, like he was reliving his sweetest memories on Prowl’s body. Prowl shuddered from the implications — the number of kills, the pleasure Jazz took from them, and wondered how he had never connected the dots so far. How he could read the files, approve the ops, scan the reports, yet never saw beyond what Jazz wanted him to see. How he could be — had always been — so blind about people. Everyone was a pawn, nobody mattered — they didn’t need to, so he didn’t let them. Nothing felt personal to him, right until they did and he had no choice about what did. Because everything did, everything did matter. He just didn’t let them. 

Then, he let _Jazz_.

*

Jazz smeared energon over Prowl’s platings, and everything hurt. 

His drenched palms, his helm, his spark. His faceplate, which kept splitting into a smile. Something that he defaulted to, which felt familiar, though he couldn’t quite recall what was the sentiment behind it. A shuttle’s pace, a shuttle’s pace, Prowl’s sparkbeat had noticeably slowed down. Loss of energon, likely, plus the mess around his spike housing. 

Multiple overloads. 

Jazz wrapped his hands around Prowl’s waist, thumbs resting over transfluid.

“One more time, babe?”

Prowl couldn’t speak, just weakly nodded. Jazz’s spike had stayed pressurized throughout, the way it sometimes did after his missions. He never allowed it more than once every few vorns, better to let the pressure build, his fantasies taking on feverish edges until he could hardly tell them from reality. Which made his job easier, while navigating the rest of the world much harder. He had his indulgences — good company, music, Prowl. One to free the mind, one to calm him down—

— and one to rile him up, in a way that did not involve taking lives. 

Against all odds, Prowl chose to move. Still fighting him, stubborn as a mechanimule. He had become so soft and swollen that penetration must be uncomfortable, nonetheless Prowl forced his body up and down, the tight press of his lips challenging Jazz to do any worse. He wanted something to feel righteous against, Jazz gave it to him. He needed an immovable obstacle to fight, Jazz obliged. For selfish reasons, mind, because why dig deep for Prowl’s fire when he could provide a target and watch it blaze out, open flame flicking over his body, swallowing him. Prowl never looked more beautiful than with frustrated intentions. Jazz didn’t just want to own it, he had realized. He wanted to feel it directed at himself. 

Prowl slapped him. 

It was meant to be. 

End.


End file.
